Talon
by nprieto
Summary: We’re Talons… You become a number… and no one’s going to care if you live or die.


**Author's Notes:** My first Storm Hawks FanFic. I actually wrote this back in November, but I never bothered putting it up. The setting is sometime after Terra Gale was first taken over by Cyclonia, and it's told from the perspective of a young, anonymous Talon. The timeline's not meant to correspond with the show's. I was imagining a world long before the current Cyclonis/Storm Hawks. Notably, this was partly inspired from my history homework.

**Summary:** We're Talons… You become a number… and no one's going to care if _you_ live or die.

**- - -**

I wanted to forget the things I saw.

I wanted to believe I had a home to return to, or that I had a bed I could curl up in.

The fact is I don't have any of those luxuries. I remember everything—the blood, the wounds, the incurable effects of disease. My mind's eye still recalls—vividly, mind you—the sight of a man crawling on two bloody stumps where his arms should've been, or my ears the sound of another's intestines squelching out from a gash to the bowels.

I could feel the adrenaline make my legs quiver and my face take on a sadistic smile—born out of fear, exhilaration, and exhaustion. It felt like I was watching my body move from somewhere afar; yes, there she goes driving the butt of a crystal-less blade into someone's skull. There's the characteristic _CRUNCH_ of the bones and the bits of brains oozing—or were they popping?—out.

Of course, she can't hear it. She's too engrossed in something she didn't have to do. He was dying anyway, but the sight made her sick to her stomach. Hell, he wasn't even the enemy—just some errand boy who got caught in the crossfire and was begging to be killed swift and easy.

Well, there he had it—swift and easy.

That's how it felt. I could feel it, and nothing's stopping me from feeling it over and over and over again.

I don't have a home. Total war has a funny way of making those kinds of things disappear pretty quickly. Yep—that's what He made us do: pillage and burn. They took over our turf, so we had to make mincemeat of it, you see. First, we wiped out whatever was available (food, supplies, the works), and then we took on the offensive. And, well, the rest is left to the history books; I don't know if we won, or if they scored a strategic victory. I mean, we thought they had on us on the ropes for a while.

I wasn't paying attention.

I do have a bed. It tends to change a lot, though. One day I was resting on the floor of a foxhole, the next found me in an emergency ward. They told me I suffered from shock. All I remember from that little incident was someone holding a knife to my neck, threatening to slit it open if I didn't keep quiet.

I couldn't help but think, 'What did it matter?'

You could hardly hear anything over the thunder of energy blasts, falling rides, screams of agony, and blazing fires, scorching the underbrush of a dying terra and sending the smell of smoky, rotting bodies into the atmosphere.

I don't remember. I don't remember. I don't remember what happened after… he… I'm sorry. I really don't.

I'm alive, so that should tell you something. But, god, do I wish I was dead. Suicide's an option out here, but they could always shoot me down if I decided to desert (maybe I'd get lucky?). Or, I could just wait until I get killed by someone from the other side, or if one of my less-than-trigger-happy squad members gets a hold of me, just like the way I ousted that kid.

He was what, fourteen, fifteen? He wasn't any older than I was at the time, as far as I know. If she's still around, his mother would be saying, 'I hope he's alright' or 'Why hasn't he sent me a message yet?' or 'I'll kill the bastard that did him in.' But how would she know?

We're Talons. We gave up our identities in the name of Service to the Empire. You become a number. You become a casualty—say it with me: _casual_ty. Unless you're a war hero or a general, you don't have a name, and no one's going to care if _you_ live or die.

And you're mother's definitely going to be the last to know unless you tell her yourself—a fairly one-sided process.

So, back to death: how exactly am _I_ going to die? Would living make much of a difference? If I live through this assault, then I'm guaranteed a year or two either in asylum or off-duty. The rules tend to change, though, so I wouldn't count on anything 'guaranteed.'

They 'guaranteed' honor and wealth. They 'guaranteed' victory and prosperity. I remember my brother 'guaranteed' me I'd become his second-in-command. He was a squadron leader. And I remember seeing his ride drive headfirst into the Wastelands with a decapitated body lolling in the pilot's seat.

What a beautiful sight that was; Papa would've loved to hear me tell the tale, since he's the one who pressured us into enlisting.

Mama and Papa were from Terra Gale. They had those heavy accents and all. My brother and I were born on Terra Rex after Gale was raised, since our parents had the sense to make a family-move _before_ the Cyclonians took over.

Rex was always a neutral terra—a _powerful_, neutral terra. The Cyclonians didn't make a fuss over it, so we grew up under relatively peaceful conditions. You'd think my Papa of all people would have it out for Cyclonia. His farm and Mama's business were completely desolated. But, of course, he rooted for the winning team and foresaw the Empire as the inevitable top dog.

He wanted in, so he forced _us_ in.

My brother was enthusiastic about the thought of being a big war-hero, since he was top of his class in the Academy. If he wanted all of that glory crap, he could've easily become a Sky Knight. They love boasting about how honorable and virtuous they are, and how everyone should follow their example in 'ridding the Atmos of tyranny and evil.' Or, in Rex's case, maintaining the Code.

But, no—he had to listen to what Papa said because Papa was always right and Papa always knew what was best for us.

Papa isn't the one smashing in the skulls of fifteen-year-olds or risking his neck (literally, if you were my brother) for the sake of a purely expansionist cause. Papa isn't alive anymore. He and Mama died. Everybody died. Everyone alive now will eventually die tomorrow, or the day after, or sometime in the future whenever or if ever all of this ends.

I wanted to forget the looks on their faces when I came home for the first time.

Mama wouldn't even look at me the rest of my stay, and Papa just talked and talked about the honor we were bringing to the family. Not once did I see the green of his eyes. All he wanted was to hear his own voice justify himself—justify the service he did in sending his only children into the heat of blood-ridden conflict.

So, I never saw them again after that.

Rex got caught up in sectional interests over who to side with—Atmosia or Cyclonia? And my parents? When Rex decided to choose a side—_just this once_—they were labeled as Loyalists. They got themselves killed in some protest I didn't hear about until two years after the fact.

I'm tired. I'm so damn tired. My head won't stop reeling in all of this day after day after day. Tomorrow, I'm setting out again with a new squadron. They said I could leave the ward in another few hours. A sprained wrist shouldn't stop me from pulling a trigger, and hey, I've been through the worst of it, haven't I?

I _wanted_ to forget.

I _wanted_ to start a new life somewhere far from this chaos.

But now, looking back, I know that's impossible. You can't just pluck a kid from the battlefield or a dogfight and expect him to get along just dandy as a civilian. All I know is how to draw a sword, load a crystal, and pull a trigger. That's been my life for the past five years, and I may as well be of _some_ use to _some_body.

Besides, all the sooner I get to rub this crap in Papa's face, right?

Right.

**- - -**

**Author's Notes:** Feedback would be much appreciated.


End file.
